


Unexpected Guests

by marrymemeriadoc



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Human Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:52:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marrymemeriadoc/pseuds/marrymemeriadoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel, traumatized by his past, moves to a small town where he can live in peace, alone. When given a strange necklace, Castiel realizes that he hasn't been living by himself all this time, and in turn discovers that the town's hidden past is not unlike his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WOW, so here I am with a Supernatural fic, which I never thought would happen! I've recently fallen head over heels for Destiel and couldn't handle not writing about them. This fic will be really long once it all plays out, so I hope you're here for the long run. I love all feedback, and thank you for reading!

Castiel doesn’t mind being alone all the time. Really he doesn’t. 

He knows he’s considered odd in the town. Everyone gives him a wide berth whenever he goes out. He sees the glances; he hears the whispers. He learned long before he moved here that people found him strange. 

_Did you see what Castiel is wearing today?_

_Look at him buying that awful jacket. You know he’s the richest man in the town, don’t you? Why would he buy that?_

_Do you think he ever brushes his hair?_

_Poor Castiel. He lives all alone, you know. It’s not like he tries to connect with anyone though, so it’s no surprise._

_No one wants to be around Castiel. Have you ever talked to him? It’s like a brick wall, but worse._

Castiel ignores all of the comments. He knows he has the money to buy whatever he wants, whenever he wants. If he truly wished, he could have almost anything he wanted, thanks to the massive amounts of money in his bank account. It’s different, though, to buy clothing and furniture and trinkets that have a story, a real, true history that Castiel can read through the wear and tear of the items. It’s important to him to cherish things that have been forgotten or given up or forcibly left behind. He knows the pain of losing things, so whenever he finds something that he knows has a story, he finds it hard to put back down. 

He doesn’t mind not having friends. Not many people understand why he is like he is. He doesn’t have the energy to explain it to anyone who seems to be interested, either. It’s complicated, he says to anyone who asks about his life. Very, very complicated. 

It could be worse, Castiel often muses to himself. But it could also be better. 

It doesn’t help that the townspeople are the most plain, uninteresting people on the planet. Even if Castiel wanted to open up to anyone, the last people he would choose is the people of Jonesborough. They are rude, arrogant, self-obsessed, and downright nosey about the affairs of everyone else’s lives. Castiel had to slam his door in the faces of grown adults dressed like trick-or-treaters who had come to try to sneak a look inside his home two years ago. They didn’t seem ashamed at all when they turned back to the street; they seemed disappointed that they didn’t accomplish their mission. 

Castiel knows his house is a mystery. 

He knows that he himself is a mystery.

His house, though, was not his originally, which most people are aware of. He has only lived here for four years. He doesn’t know the house’s backstory, which irritates him to no end. No one in the town seems to know either. The realtor, an unpleasant woman named Meg, had shrugged whenever he asked about the house’s history. 

“Honestly, no one knows anything about this place. It’s sat empty for over ninety years, and there’s no one around who has lived long enough to see anyone live in it. Anyway, you want it or not?” 

Castiel wanted it, of course. Ninety years is a long time for a place to sit empty, so there were some issues in the beginning that were challenging, but not impossible. The house needed a new roof, new plumbing, new sheetrock in several of the downstairs walls, new railing on the porch and stairs, a new front door, modern appliances, and a fresh coat of paint in every room. Castiel did it all himself, without complaint. He could have hired people to do the work for him, but he felt better doing it himself. There was something about putting his own touches in the historic home that calmed him. Knowing he had made his mark on something was quite satisfying. The town hall had little requirements when it came to handling his home, which was surprising but very fortunate. He enjoyed having free range to do what he wanted to the house. After four years of living in it, Castiel can’t imagine what leaving it would be like. It's his safe place. 

His home is regal and old, sitting on the end of a street with other houses that are nice, but not quite as old as Castiel’s. Meg told him it was a Victorian style house, which is about the only thing she could give him a definite answer on. When he first laid his eyes on it, he thought it looked like something out of a horror film, but Castiel wasn’t scared of many things, so he ignored the vibe the house gave and bought it for a surprisingly small amount. The work he put into the house did wonders for its appearance, and the low number of tourists that visit the town were always taking pictures of it from the street. Castiel often wondered how many times he appeared in the pictures the tourists took. He often sits in the sun room on the first floor, which has a beautiful window that allows Castiel to see out into his front yard and the street beyond. He sits in his favorite maroon armchair, turned slightly away from the window so the natural light catches the pages just how he likes it, and reads for hours on end. Sometimes, the flash of a camera catches his attention, but he never looks up at the tourists, not wanting to ruin their picture more than he already is by simply being in it. 

Castiel is currently curled up in his armchair, but he isn’t reading. In fact, he’s just sitting and staring out the window. It’s one of those days. He doesn’t feel like doing much of anything, but he knows he needs to go to the store and maybe stop by the antique store on his way back. He doesn’t have friends, but he feels obligated to visit the antique store whenever he can, if only because the old woman who owns it, Mrs. Anne, is kind and reminds Castiel of a grandmother that he never got to know. He respects the old woman; she never asks about his life, other than to ask him if he’s been getting on okay. She seems to understand his irritation with the townspeople. He could probably walk through the antique store with his eyes closed and point out anything there, if asked. Not many new things turn up at the antique store, but Castiel doesn’t mind. There are a few things he has his eye on, if no one else wants them. He has enough space in his house for a few more items, but he has a feeling that he’s waiting for something more special than the regular furniture that sits in the store. 

Castiel stares out the window, watching as a family of four scurries down the sidewalk near the street, heads bowed against the cold wind. It’s December, almost Christmas. Castiel has always liked Christmas, but it makes his heart ache for times long gone. He doesn’t even put up a tree; there’s no point when he’s the only one to enjoy it. A good sized tree would fit nicely in front of the sun room window, but he knows he doesn’t have the heart to decorate a tree alone, even if it would block the town’s view of his home’s interior, saving him from tourist pictures and nosey people alike. 

He grumbles under his breath, just thinking of how hectic the store will be thanks to the approaching holidays. There’s only one store in the entire town that sells groceries, and it’s always overwhelming this time of year with people planning their Christmas feasts. Castiel just needs the basics, but those are always the hardest to get during the winter, given everyone is obsessed with the possibility of a snowstorm. Castiel was unprepared when he first moved here as to just how odd the winter made people in this town. 

He had been standing in line at the checkout when a woman decided to try to make small talk with him. 

“So, this weather is intense, right?”

Castiel had blinked, and turned toward the woman behind him. “Sorry, intense?”

The woman nodded eagerly and pointed outside, waiting until Castiel eyes had followed her finger until speaking again. “Look at the sky! There’s sure to be a snowstorm this year. No doubt about it.” 

Castiel had looked at the sky and saw nothing remarkable. He was no meteorologist, but he didn’t think a snowstorm was in the forecast for the winter. It was a cool forty-five degrees most days in the winter, but it rarely dipped below freezing in this part of the country. He frowned and looked back to the woman. 

“I doubt it snows more than an inch here. I don’t understand.” 

The woman laughed. “Well, sure, but it’s going to this year! Just wait. It’s coming. And when it does, you’ll want to be prepared, especially in that big house of yours. Bet it gets cold in there all alone, don’t it?” 

Castiel hummed noncommittally, tuning out at the mention of his house. The small talk was just another way to try to pry Castiel into talking about himself, and even in the beginning, he knew that these people weren’t worth his time. 

Now, Castiel is dragging himself out of the warmth of his armchair. Today is one of those rare days where it actually is below freezing, so he knows he’ll have to dress warm if he wants to stay comfortable during his trip to the store and back. He doesn’t have a car, unlike most people in the town, so he has to walk if he wants to get anywhere. Jonesborough is so small that it doesn’t even have a transportation system. Castiel finds it annoying now, but when he first moved in he found it charming. 

The town, regardless of the nuances, is a beautiful place. The buildings all have history, even if Castiel’s home is one of the oldest in the town. All of the restaurants are locally owned; Castiel can’t remember the last time he saw a McDonald’s. The sidewalks are made of brick, worn down and crumbling, but not in the way that makes them a thing to avoid walking on. The street lamps cast a romantic glow onto the streets, encouraging evening strolls under their watchful light. Castiel isn’t one for romance, but he appreciates the aesthetic of the town. It’s calming, almost like going back in time to when maybe the world wasn’t such a difficult place to live in. But even in this odd town with the annoying people, Castiel feels sometimes like living is too much. He’s been through too much. The house helps, the items he finds helps, but there are just some things too painful to forget. 

He pulls his tan trench coat, buttoning it quickly. The coat gets him lots of weird looks, but so does everything else he wears. Being as wealthy as he is, most people expect him to wear extremely expensive clothing, but Castiel, being who he is, prefers second-hand clothing that’s well-worn and comfortable. 

The store is about a ten minute walk from his home, which was a selling point, given his lack of a car. He walks quickly, thankful that there is no one out to try to speak to him. He doesn’t think he could manage to be polite to anyone if they approached him in this cold. 

He makes it to the store without any mishaps, and he heads inside. The store isn’t as crowded as he would have guessed; perhaps it’s a bit too early for the townspeople to start screaming about the snowstorm that they are sure will happen one of these days. He grabs the few things he needs in order not to starve, and checks out without anyone disturbing him. He pays with a hundred dollar bill, even if the groceries don’t amount to over thirty dollars. The cashier glances up at him, but says nothing. Most people know by now to leave him alone. He mentally goes through his grocery list when the cashier scans each item, checking off things as he goes. Once satisfied that he has everything, he exits the store and braves the cold wind again. 

He knows that he’s going to stop by the antique store. It was one of those days, and even if he does have cold foods in his recyclable bags, he knows it will make him feel better if he finds something that draws him into the peace he feels when he knows he’s holding someone’s history in his hands. 

He heads in the direction of his house, but stops whenever he gets to the street where the antique store is on. He approaches the door, but stops whenever he notices the sign saying that the store is closed. 

He blinks at the big, red letters and tilts his head to the side. 

It’s only five on a Wednesday. The store should be open for another three hours. 

He almost turns away and heads home, but he notices that the door is slightly cracked open, clearly dangerous if someone who was a lesser man than Castiel happened across the store. Castiel knows of the valuable items lying within, and he isn’t about to let anything happen to them. 

He cautiously pushes the door open, clearing his throat before speaking. 

“Mrs. Anne?” He calls, loud enough to be heard throughout the large store, hoping to startle anyone who might already be lurking. All the lights are off, and the antique store windows are dirty, blocking most of the natural light. 

He stays quiet, listening for a response. 

Castiel hears nothing except his own breathing. 

He goes further into the store, heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t know why his adrenaline is pumping. His house is scarier than this during the night, and he has no problem walking around without the lights on. Yet, there’s something off. He can feel it growing with every step he takes. 

There is only one window in the room he enters next, but it’s blocked by a large boudoir, making it a struggle to see. Castiel knows the store like the back of his hand, but suddenly he’s too frightened to go any further. Mrs. Anne clearly isn’t here, and she probably just forgot the close the door on her way out, something Castiel can see her doing. But he’s still shaken with the feeling that something is off. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes for a second to get his bearings. 

“Castiel, dear, is that you?” 

Castiel’s eyes fly open and he spins around. There stands Mrs. Anne, under one of the florescent light bulbs that is…on. She is giving him a look that says she’s concerned, but he knows she won’t voice it, because Mrs. Anne is respectable. 

His eyes dart around, taking in the room. All of the lights are on and he can see into the front of the store from here, noticing that the sign on the door says OPEN, as if it had never said it was closed to begin with. Castiel shakes his head, his hands cramping from holding his grocery bags. 

“Hello, Mrs. Anne. I thought…you were closed. The lights were off and I didn’t see you.”

Mrs. Anne frowns slightly. “You know we’re open until eight on Wednesdays, Castiel. And I promise, I’m always here! Noon to eight. How funny, you didn’t see me at the desk?” 

Castiel tilts his head to the side, trying to wrap his mind around what she was saying. He knows he isn’t crazy, even if the townspeople enjoy saying that he is. There was definitely something wrong just a minute ago, but now everything is back to how it usually is. Castiel still feels unsettled, like he’s missing the punchline of a joke that everyone else is laughing at. Mrs. Anne isn’t laughing though, she’s looking at him, worry lines creasing her aged face. 

“I guess I just lost myself for a moment,” Castiel mumbles. He can feel his pulse slowing, but he’s still wary. 

Mrs. Anne nods sympathetically, and suddenly her eyes widen. “Oh! I have something for you. I found it in a chest of drawers in the very back room. It reminded me of you, for some reason, and I doubt it would sell for very much, so it’s on the house.” 

Mrs. Anne steps closer, pulling a necklace out of her apron. It’s an amulet of some horned being, swinging back and forth on the black cord. Mrs. Anne holds it out to him. 

Castiel stares at it. He has no idea why Mrs. Anne thought of him whenever she found this necklace. It’s like nothing he would ever wear, even with his interesting taste in clothing. This amulet looks like it belongs on the neck of someone who is rebellious and superstitious. Castiel, while superstitious, isn’t one for being rebellious. Regardless, he shifts all of his grocery bags into one hand and accepts the necklace, gingerly allowing it to rest in his palm. 

“It’s funny,” Mrs. Anne muses, also staring down at the amulet. “I could have sworn that I cleaned those drawers out forever ago. I can’t see how I could miss that sitting in there. I imagine I would have thrown it away back then, but it’s a good thing I know someone who loves unusual things.” She winks at him, eyes crinkling when she smiles. 

Castiel gives her a slight smile back. “Thank you, I appreciate it greatly.” 

He slips the necklace into his coat pocket and he and Mrs. Anne head towards the front of the store together. 

“I think it’s going to snow soon,” Mrs. Anne says to him, sounding nervous. “You better make sure you stay warm, Castiel. This town can get dreadfully cold when it snows.”

Castiel wonders why everyone is so fixated on snow in this town, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he tells Mrs. Anne to have a Merry Christmas, and he’s headed back home. He breathes a sigh of relief, some of his fear easing because he’s out of the antique store. Something happened there, but Castiel can’t put his finger on what went wrong. He knows he didn’t hallucinate the shop saying it was closed, and he knows that the store was dark and empty when he first entered it. But there isn’t much of an explanation, given Mrs. Anne seemed to have no idea what he was talking about. 

The wind is colder than it was, and Castiel quickens his pace in order to get out of it as soon as possible. He can feel the wind burning his cheeks, so he ducks his head, trying to shield himself from the worst of it. Thankfully, he makes it home in no time due to the small size of the town. He drops his groceries on the counter and begins to put them away. His kitchen is fairly large given how much cooking must have gone on in the past, but Castiel isn’t very fond of cooking meals. Only cooking for himself makes his chest hurt from loss, so he usually sticks to the basics and forgoes anything too fancy or time consuming. 

He pulls off his trench coat and hangs it up in the coat closet, which is full of many different jackets and coats of all lengths and patterns and fabrics. Castiel has a thing for long coats, his trench coat being his favorite by far, and he can’t help but browse the thrift store selection every time he visits. The Goodwill employees are snooty to him since they know he can afford much more expensive clothing, but Castiel pretends he doesn’t notice. Just because he has money doesn’t mean he has to spend hundreds of dollars on something he could find for five at Goodwill. 

Castiel pauses before he shuts the closet door, suddenly remembering the necklace that Mrs. Anne gifted to him. Slowly, he reaches back into his coat pocket, pulling out the amulet. He closes the door and makes his way to the sun room, staring at the necklace all the while. It doesn’t look very old, given the cord of the necklace, and he doubts Mrs. Anne cleaned it up much before giving it to him. The story of it must be something fascinating. A somewhat new necklace found in an old chest of drawers, which Mrs. Anne claimed to be empty? It’s a mystery, just like Castiel and his home are mysteries that the town so desperately tries to solve. 

He sits down in his chair, still looking at the necklace. It isn’t his style at all, but he feels compelled to put it on. There’s a certain charm to it, and Castiel has always been drawn to charming things. 

He straightened out the cord and pulls the loop wide, allowing his head to slip between. Castiel adjusts the necklace, staring down at the little horned being. It sits perfectly on the upper part of his sternum, and it’s so light that Castiel barely feels it there. He can’t help but think about what it must have looked like on its previous owner. 

“Shit, Cas, that looks damn good on you. Almost as good as it did on me. Wonder where Sammy is, he’ll get a kick out of seeing that thing again.” 

Castiel’s eyes fly up in shock and zero in on the source of the voice from the other side of the sunroom. There, sitting on the piano bench, is an attractive man with dark blonde hair and sparkling green eyes, smiling at Castiel like he’s known him forever. Castiel almost, almost screams, but he's so surprised by the look on the man’s face that he's rendered momentarily speechless. 

“I—what the hell are you doing in my house?” Castiel finally chokes out after a few seconds. “How on earth did you get in here?”

The man freezes, his eyebrows raising in awe. “You can see me?” The man leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs to balance on the bench. His tongue swipes across his lips. “You seriously can see me?” 

Castiel can’t believe this. There’s a stranger in his home acting as if Castiel won’t notice his trespassing? “Of course I can see you! Who the hell are you and why are you here?” 

Slowly, the man breaks into a grin, making Castiel’s quickly escalating breath catch. 

“Sammy,” the man calls loudly, “Come here quick! Cas can see me!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cas meets Dean and (briefly) Sam! He learns how the boys ended up in his house, but the why is still a mystery to all. Please enjoy. :)

Castiel is staring at the man on the bench who is looking right back at him in a way that Castiel is sure no one has ever graced him with. It's what Castiel would consider a look of complete adoration and fascination, something that he knows he could never deserve from anyone. He's about to snap at him to get that look off his face when he hears something.

Loud footsteps are making their way down the main hallway, making Castiel whip his head towards the doorway. There's _another_ stranger in his house, and when an extremely tall man with shoulder length hair appears in the open doorway, Castiel doesn't keep his words to himself.

"What the hell is going here?! Are you burgling me?" Castiel hisses. He stands on his shaky legs, even though he knows that he's no more intimidating while standing. 

The gorgeous man on the piano bench ignores his words, turning to the other stranger with a look of awe etched on his face. "He can see you too, Sammy. For the first time in four damn years, he sees us!"

The tall man leans his weight on the door frame, letting out a breathless laugh. He's staring at Castiel like he's grown two heads, but the upturned corners of his mouth make this seem like a good thing. "Oh my God. You're right. He sees us."

"Stop talking about me right in front of me! I'm right here, for God's sake," Castiel says indignantly, running a hand through his permanently messy hair. This is something out of a bad dream, but his nightmares are without a doubt much worse than this, so he's convinced that he's not dreaming. The men in his house must be real. Castiel has never seen either of them before in his life, but they're looking at him and talking about him like they've known him for years.

"Wait a second," Castiel slowly says, turning back towards the man on the bench. "You just said...I'm seeing you for the first time in four years? What the hell does that mean, four years? I've never seen either of you before in my entire life, and I know you can't have known me for four years without me at least seeing you. This town's too small for that."

These men must be burglars. Castiel can recognize every face in Jonesborough, and he is certain that he doesn't know these two. He doesn't have any friends here that would pull this kind of prank on him.

He knows that a couple of the sun room windows can open, but he doubts he could open one and jump out into the shrubbery below the windows without the burglars catching him. The tall man is still standing in the doorway, making that an obsolete escape route. Castiel doubts he could push past the man even if he tried, given the sheer size of him. Even if he catches him off guard, he'll probably injure himself instead of escaping and just stumble back into the room.

The two men are communicating through looks, irritating Castiel. How dare they pretend like he isn't here? He knows he's not much of a threat, but this is his home, and if anyone is going to break into it, he deserves an explanation, burglars or not. It's common courtesy.

He forces his trembling body to move across the room, letting his anger show on his face as he stops in front of the man on the piano bench. Up close, he's even more breathtaking, but Castiel ignores the thought and instead shoves the man back.

The piano bench rocks back onto two legs, almost toppling back into the piano, but the man catches himself by placing his hands on the keys, the jarring sound of notes making Castiel wince.

Suddenly, the man is on his feet, crowding into Castiel's personal space like he owns it. Castiel forgets how to breathe as the man leans in close, eyes glittering dangerously.

"Holy shit, Dean, he can touch you! Oh my God, this is too much," the man in the doorway laughs out, running a hand through his long hair. "This is just—”

"Sam, I'm going to talk to Cas," the man, apparently named Dean, bites out roughly. "Get out for a minute, both of us being here will just make it harder to understand."

Castiel thinks he sees the tall man—Sam—nod out of the corner of his eye, but he's too caught up in trying to reign his heart rate back to normalcy to actually know what's going on.

He hears Sam retreat down the hall, and he opens his mouth to demand answers, but Dean raises a hand to his face, hesitantly cupping his cheek.

The words die in his throat.

Dean smiles sadly, shaking his head slightly. "I can't believe this. After four years of living with you, I can finally talk to you. God, Cas, I can _touch_ you. I haven't touched anyone except Sam in forever. Sorry if I come off as forward, and I know you don't know me like I know you, but you're wearing my necklace and it's making me want to touch you, if only just to see if I can."

Castiel takes back his acceptance that this is real life. He must be dreaming. The most beautiful man Castiel has ever laid eyes on his talking about wanting to touch him, and even if he might be a serial killer burglar, it's making Castiel feel kind of dizzy.

Dean allows his hand to slowly fall from Castiel's face, a look of what looks like regret flashing over his features. He clears his throat before taking a step back, sitting carefully back down on the piano bench. He looks up at Castiel, who's still standing dazed in front of him. "Alright, ask me anything. I'll answer you, honest."

Castiel blinks at him, opening and closing his mouth, the words not coming. His legs feel like jelly from having been so close to the man, so he turns and goes back to his armchair, not trusting himself to stand for whatever conversation is about to happen. He sits on the edge of the chair and runs his hand through his hair. His heart is still pounding, but he wants his answers. His eyes dart to Dean's and then focus on his hands in his lap.

"How do—how do you know my name?" He stutters out, internally reprimanding himself for sounding so timid. This is his house; he shouldn't be the one sounding scared. But something about the man across the room makes Castiel nervous and jittery. He rubs his palms on his slacks, still staring down into his lap.

On the bench, Dean huffs out a laugh, and nods as if he considers that a valid first question.

"I know your name because I've had to live with you for the past four years. Sorry I've taken the liberty of shortening it to just 'Cas', but I think you can get that your name is kind of a mouthful," Deans says. The corners of his eyes crinkle from a smile that he tries to hide.

Cas looks up then, eyes narrowing. "You keep saying that. 'Four years'. Explain."

Dean shifts on the piano bench, humming for a moment. He seems like he's having a hard time finding the right words. He presses his lips together, brow furrowing as he stares at Cas.

Cas raises his eyebrows, waiting.

Deans sighs heavily and runs a hand over his mouth, nodding to himself slowly. "Okay, alright. This one's a doozy, so hold on and don't start shoving at me again."

Cas can feel his face heating up. He knew before he did it that pushing Dean would get him nowhere. He's not really sure why he did it, other than being extremely frustrated at the man. If Dean really is some kind of stalker burglar, Cas is lucky he didn't get beat up.

Dean looks out the window toward the street, watching as the street lamps turn on one by one as the sun sets, and begins speaking.

"This may be too bizarre for you, but I've seen what kind of books you read, so I think you'll be able to follow me," he starts, looking fondly at Cas, making Cas’s heart stutter in his chest. "Okay. So. Something happened to Sammy and me in 1995 on Christmas Day. At least, that’s the last day I can remember from that year, and Sam’s story is the same so whatever happened to me must have happened to him. We still haven’t figured out what exactly went on, but the harsh reality is that we’re both dead.” 

Dean stops here, staring hard at Cas, waiting for some kind of reaction. 

Cas nods slowly, processing the information. While definitely unrealistic, Cas has never been one to deny anything, no matter how strange. This confession ranks as one of his top ten weirdest moments in life, but he waves his hand at Dean, motioning for him to continue. He won’t freak out. Not yet, anyway. 

Dean smiles and licks his lips. He seems happy that Cas hasn’t lost it and started shoving at him again. “Alright, so four years ago, on the day you moved in, Sam and I woke up from some crazy kind of coma, holed up together in the coat closet. We woke up when you unceremoniously chucked a suitcase full of clothes in there and hit me in the head. By the way, love your sense of style.” Dean winks here, and Cas knows his face is definitely turning red. 

“We woke up, and I automatically started cussing up a storm because I was stiff as hell, and my head was pounding from the suitcase. Sammy and I followed you around the house, trying to get your attention as you sorted everything out, but you never responded. It was as if you couldn’t see us. Finally, I got so pissed off that I tried to touch y—well, I tried to hit you, sorry—and my hand passed right through your body. At first, I thought you weren’t real or something. But then, your realtor came by with some papers for you to sign and Sammy and I figured out that _we_ were the ones who no one could see.” 

Dean lets out a breathless laugh here, shaking his head. “Which was freaky as hell because the last thing we remember was arguing with Dad on Christmas in 1995 before, well…that part doesn’t matter I guess. But we’ve been living here with you ever since you moved in. Don’t worry, we don’t steal your food or anything; we don’t have to eat. And we aren’t dicks, so we never thought about breaking your shit to try to get you to notice us or freak you out. We didn’t want you to leave because then we might go back into that weird coma, so we’ve been on our best behavior.” 

Dean suddenly looks embarrassed, looking away from Cas and then quickly looking back. “Well, the shirt I’m wearing is yours, actually. That’s the only thing I’ve let myself take without putting it perfectly back into place. But you never missed it, so…” He trails off here, pink coloring his cheeks. 

At Dean’s words, Cas zeros in on the shirt Dean has on. It’s a black long-sleeved button up, and Dean has the sleeves pushed on his biceps, showing off his forearms. Cas can’t ever remembering owning it. He always wears white dress shirts, not black. Has he ever even owned a black shirt? Other than for the—ah.

Cas squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t believe he forgot, if only for a second. He feels like crying, suddenly, his breath hitching in his throat. How could he forget something so terrible, the worst time of his life? It’s all his fault; he’s to blame for all of it happening. He’ll never forget, ever, but he just did for a small moment. What kind of person is he, to forget what he knows will haunt him forever?

“Cas, hey, listen to me, it’s alright. You’re okay, it’s okay. You hear me? Cas?” 

Cas looks up, eyes blurry with unshed tears. He can hear himself beginning to hyperventilate, which worries him less than it should. He deserves to pass out, to lose enough oxygen to slip away into sleep. Maybe the ache will leave if he lets himself go far enough. 

But Dean is in front of him, his warms hands cupping Cas’s face. Cas wonders how a dead man can be warm. He’s leaning in close, and Cas can see his green eyes filled with concern. Just like Mrs. Anne looked at him at the antique store, but there’s something else in Dean’s expression that he can’t name, can’t put his finger on. Dean runs a thumb over Cas’s cheekbone, frowning slightly. 

“Breathe, Cas. In and out. Follow me, alright? In,” Dean inhales slowly and Cas mimics him, forcing his lungs to obey Dean’s commands.

“Good, good, now out, nice and slow,” Dean murmurs, exhaling. Cas follows, staring into Dean’s eyes. They’re beautiful, he thinks dazedly. They’re green, but there’s also gold and yellow mixed in, making them even more unique than Cas originally thought they were. He leans into Dean’s hands, and his gaze is drawn to Dean’s mouth. His lips are parted, still inhaling and exhaling to aid Cas’s breathing rate back to normal. 

Dean’s eyes widen slightly and he licks his lips, as if he knows they’re what has Cas captivated. 

“Cas,” he starts, but then abruptly halts his words, choosing instead to reluctantly pull his hands away from Cas’s face. He steps back and rubs a hand over the back of his head. He looks flustered, but he says nothing, just waits until Cas has himself back under control. Cas takes in a shuddering breath and then lets it out, thankfully no longer at risk for hyperventilating.

Dean smiles softly at him. “I won’t pry and ask what happened there, but tell me, you alright?” He’s looking down at Cas with that unknown look again. 

Cas nods, leaning back in the armchair, suddenly exhausted from all the events of the day. “Yeah, I’m—I’m fine now. Can we…is it okay if we continue this conversation tomorrow? Assuming I’ll still be able to see you.” Cas was having a hard time staying awake after losing control of his emotions. Also, his interactions with Dean over the course of the hour have made him have more questions than he originally thought he had, but he knows he is too drained to hear any more of the brothers’ bizarre story. 

Something flashes in Dean’s eyes, but Cas is too tired to decipher the meaning. It looked like hurt, but Dean covered it quickly enough. Dean nods, staring through the door and down the hallway. 

“Yeah, I’ll let you get some sleep. Just…don’t take the necklace off, alright? That’s gotta be what allows you to see us, so keep it on from now on. That is…if you want to,” Dean’s voice is rough but quiet, hiding his feelings but Cas can hear the sadness there without trying. 

“Of course I want to see you tomorrow,” Cas says, slightly miffed that Dean would suggest otherwise. He settles back sideways into his armchair, bringing his legs up to rest over the arm. “Just don’t watch me sleep or anything," he jokes tiredly. 

For a moment, Dean looks stricken, but again, the look drops from his face instantly. He nods, a short, quick jerk, and then turns and heads down the hall.

“See you tomorrow, then, Cas.” 

Cas wonders what the look was about, but his eyes fall closed before he can reply. 

He dreams of the color green.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's like three words long; Christmas left me exhausted. Too many family members bitching about my appearance.

Cas wakes up slowly, neck painfully stiff. Falling asleep in the armchair probably wasn't the best idea, but Cas was so overwhelmed and tired after his encounter with Sam and Dean that he knew he couldn't make it all the way upstairs to his bedroom. Outside, the street lamps are glowing dimly in the darkness, but Castiel knows from the slow flow of cars down the street that it's almost seven in the morning. Many people drive almost an hour to get to wherever they work, so everyone gets up early in this town. Castiel hasn't had a job since he moved here, but he doesn't need one thanks to his wealth. He's set for life, and his plan is to live out his days in this house, trying to forget the things he left behind in quiet mourning. 

Which would have been easy if it weren't for his two new house guests. 

His mind is still reeling after seeing the two men. Knowing that they've been here since he moved gives him a headache. What have they seen and heard? Castiel has been an emotional wreck for the past several years; he can't imagine they've missed the days where he can't get out of bed from grief. They've more than likely seen him sobbing into his hands day after day, week after week. Knowing that his private moments have been seen by two strangers makes him feel ill and overwhelmingly embarrassed. 

He rubs a hand over his face, frowning at the amount of stubble that scratches his skin. He shaves constantly, but he has a permanent five o'clock shadow. 

Castiel carefully untangles himself from his uncomfortable position in the chair and stretches his arms above his head. Even if sleeping in the sunroom makes him sore, he slept almost twelve hours, a rare occurrence. 

He can hear movement down the hall, perhaps coming from the living room or kitchen. His house has always made sounds throughout the day, but he's never noticed anything unusual. It's an old house, so he always chalked it up to the settling foundation and never thought about it otherwise. But now, knowing Sam and Dean are here, he wonders just how many of those creaks and groaning floorboards are from them moving about the house. 

He pulls himself to his feet slowly, crossing his arms against his chest as he shuffles down the hall. The house is colder than usual thanks to the dropping temperature outside. It's colder than it has been since Cas has moved in, meaning everyone is staring at the sky constantly, as if they're waiting for snow to start pouring down in large, wet flakes. Cas still doesn't believe it's going to happen. 

Cas finds Sam and Dean in the kitchen. Sam is sitting at the table, reading yesterday's newspaper with mild interest, while Dean is whistling by the stove, making breakfast. Wait, breakfast? 

"I thought you two don't eat," Cas rumbles, voice still rough from sleep. He pulls out the chair across from Sam and sits down. Sam looks up at him and smiles brightly, and Dean seems to freeze for a second. 

"Yeah, we don't," Dean says, throwing a glance at Cas over his shoulder. "But _you_ do, so I thought now that you can finally see us, I can cook again. I'm pretty damn good at it. Right, Sammy?" 

Sam gives Cas a flat look. 

"Yeah, if by 'pretty damn good' you mean you can make mediocre eggs, pancakes, burgers, and macaroni." 

Dean whips around, his spatula raised threateningly in the air.

"You're just mad you don't have to eat anymore and don't get to have my delicious cooking. Now Cas here, he appreciates it." 

Dean suddenly looks nervous, as if he's said the wrong thing. 

Cas smiles at the brothers' bickering and nods his head. 

"Yes, I appreciate it, Dean. But you know I can make my own breakfast." 

Not that he minds not having to do it himself. Cas has never taken an interest in cooking; he only trusts himself to make toast and pour cereal into a bowl. Still, Dean didn't have to go to this trouble for him. 

Dean turns back to his pancakes, red creeping up the back of his neck. Cas doesn't understand why he's so embarrassed or startled by their every interaction. But if Cas had walked around for four years trying to speak to Dean, he supposes he would be surprised every time he got a response as well. Granted, just seeing Dean at all makes Cas's heart flutter. He's a very handsome man. 

Cas wonders about the things Dean has said to him over the years that he didn't get to hear. If Dean has let him in on secrets that no one has ever gotten to know. If he's allowed himself to become comfortable around a man he thought he would never get to notice him. 

But now Cas can see him, can watch the way he seamlessly flips pancakes while whistling to a song Cas doesn't know. He knows nothing about this man, and he feels cheated that Dean knows almost everything their is to know about Cas. Cas can already tell that Sam has respected his privacy by the way Sam doesn't feel the need to do things for Cas like Dean is already doing. Dean acts as if he knows Cas would enjoy him making breakfast for him, which makes it obvious that Dean has spent more of the four years in Cas's presence, unlike Sam. It puts Cas on edge, even if he knows he can't blame Dean for being curious about him. If the roles were reversed, Cas knows he would tail after Dean, figuring him out by watching his every day life. 

He might as well start trying to understand the both of them. 

"I'm assuming you tried to leave when you first got here," Cas says, internally cringing at how forcibly casual his voice sounds. Trying to make conversation wasn't Cas's forte. 

Sam looks up at him and nods, looking glum. 

"Yeah, we tried to leave right after your realtor said the house has been empty for almost a hundred years. Which isn't true, since our family has lived in this house from when it was built until we died in 1995. Not sure why she lied to you; we've always wanted to ask you that." 

Cas frowns. "She seemed like she believed what she said. She told me no one knew anything about the house. In fact, people seem so nosy about this house in particular. It's all anyone really wants to know every time they try to speak to me."

Dean places a huge, lopsided stack of pancakes in front of Cas, turning back around to grab the syrup from the pantry and the butter from the fridge. Cas blinks as Dean puts a fork and a knife on either side of the plate. 

It's a lot of pancakes. 

Dean flushes red again and adds on to Sam's answer, pretending to not see Cas's surprise. 

"Yep, the porch is fair game, but the second I put my foot on the first stair going to the walkway that leads to the street, I found myself wedged between all your coats in that damn closet again. You weren't there to throw luggage at me that time, though." 

Dean smiles at his joke and Cas sighs, seeing a theme with the closet incident. 

"Why do you think that is?" Cas muses, hesitantly cutting a piece of pancake from the bottom of the pile. It's like playing a edible version of Jenga, and he's almost sure he's going to lose. 

Dean shrugs. "Hell if I know. It was hard to find information on anything with you in the dark about our existence. Also, you're kind of a hermit with like, one computer in the house. So sneaking onto that wasn't an option." 

Cas chews thoughtfully. He does spend an awful lot of time on the Internet. Still, he doesn't think he would have put up with the whole "secret ghost" thing for as long as they did without yanking the keyboard away from him and doing some serious Googling. 

"How ya like 'em?" 

Cas's eyes dart to Dean's green ones, and he swallows his mouthful.

"They're...pretty damn good," he says slowly. And they are. Cas hasn't had anyone cook for him in a long time. Pancakes especially. Going to IHOP was the fanciest pancake choice around, so Dean's homemade ones are basically pancake heaven. 

Dean lets out a laugh and claps him on the shoulder, throwing Sam a look that screams 'I told you so'. 

Cas smiles up and Dean, who looks back down at him with a grin of his own. 

He knows he has to figure out why the brothers are here. There has to be a reason why they died and why no one in the town can seem to remember it. He knows there's a case that has to be solved. He knows that this domestic feeling won't last forever with the three of them in his kitchen. But, he can get used to this. 

It's nice not to be so alone.


End file.
